The walk had been long, over rough terrain of ungraded dirt until he’d made it to Route 777, and still Shane had miles to go. His life, all of it, boiled down to disappointment. Ma would not be pleased at the latest bit.

Annabel Rouse had said no.

Shane didn’t like no, didn’t like hearing it, didn’t like living it.

Headlamps chased blue beams of moon, and Shane thought, for a moment, of Annabel’s limp body on the sofa: pooled blood and a glassy, half-aware stare on her doll like face. He remembered her breath, the rise and fall of mountains.